Dori looked up into the wide eyes of Eirene of Glencovent, a stranger to her. A stranger who had given her a gift of inestimable value.
“Thank you,” Dori whispered.
The blonde glanced beyond Dori’s shoulder toward the bed and then met her eyes once more. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Since the night he was born.” She turned and saw the very top of a rounded head covered in dark hair among a nest of creamy bedclothes. “I’ve never held him.” She felt the young woman come to stand close behind her.
The pile of blankets suddenly gave a sharp yelp and Dori jumped.
“I’m a bit nervous,” she admitted.
She heard stomping footfalls through the open doorway and her heart leaped into her throat. “Close the door,” Dori said, lunging for the bundle on the mattress. She scooped up the surprisingly heavy baby and brought him close to her chest just as the male voice called out in surprise.
“Who are you? Where is the child the old woman was caring for?”
Dori recognized Constantine’s voice, but she could not look away from the big, slate-blue eyes staring up at her from the folds of the coverlet. William frowned at her, his little face solemn even with his rounded, flushed cheeks, frosted with pale down.
“Get out or I’ll scream,” Eirene threatened in a shrill voice.
“It’s all right, Eirene,” Dori said, still transfixed by the little face before her. His mouth was like a knot of red ribbon, his ears like flower petals. “He’s a . . . friend. I think.” She looked up then, but Constantine’s form was blurry. She blinked, felt the wetness on her cheeks, and could see him at last.
“I found him, Constantine,” she whispered. “And Eseld’s gone. I sent her away.”
Constantine nodded and Dori noticed he carried a parchment. But she didn’t care that he did, or what it said, as she turned around to ease into a seat at the side of the bed, looking back down into her son’s face.
“I saw her. She’s unwell, Dori. And I think she means to return to Thurston Hold.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dori said, bringing up a trembling hand to tentatively touch the silky strands of hair across William’s forehead. His shallow breaths were fast and sweet in his perfect nostrils as he looked around himself, as if seeking the source of the deep voice he’d heard. “I’m not going back there.”
“Dori.”
“Yes?” She trailed her finger down the side of his impossibly soft cheek.
“I have the decree Henry signed, granting Glayer Felsteppe Benningsgate.”
“I’m sorry, Constantine,” she said distractedly.
“I’m not,” he said, and his answer, along with the tone in which he spoke caused her to look up reluctantly. “It’s an assignment of inheritance, Dori. It bequeaths Benningsgate to Glayer Felsteppe in the event of my death without an heir.”
Dori blinked. “But . . . you didn’t die. The king knows that—we just had an audience with him.”
Constantine nodded. “Benningsgate still legally belongs to me, with all rights and privileges.”
“Which means that the moment Glayer Felsteppe trespasses upon it with the intention of claiming it for himself or harming anyone who belongs there . . .”
“I can defend my home.”
Dori felt the breath go out of her and she pulled William even closer. He gave a little squawk so that she started and looked down. “Oh, sorry, sorry.” Her gaze found Constantine’s again. “You must go.”
“Come with me?”
Dori looked at him for a long moment and then her eyes went to the rapt Eirene, who seemed to be enjoying watching Constantine. Dori couldn’t blame her; he was breathtaking.
“Could I trouble you for yet another favor?” she asked the young woman.
Eirene gave her sly smile. “If I have liberty to later speak of it. My companions will be beside themselves at my daring.”
“I’m in need of a proper costume,” she said and glanced down at the baby in her arms, still watching her with his great, blue owl eyes. “I can’t have William’s mother looking like a beggar. I shall compensate you for it after I return to my home.”
“And send up one of the king’s servants to me, if you would, my lady,” Constantine added. “I have a message for Henry, and a small request I think he will be all too eager to grant.”
Once Eirene of Glencovent had all but skipped from the chamber, Dori looked back at Constantine.
“You want me to return with you now because I never was Felsteppe’s wife and William is not his son.”
“No,” he said. “I want you to return in spite of those things.” His expression went hard. “Why didn’t you tell me, Dori?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d care if you knew he wasn’t Felsteppe’s child, if he had no legal claim to Benningsgate. It would have been easy for you to just . . . leave me there to die. Leave William in Felsteppe’s hands, and then in whoever’s hands the king placed him.”
“You think that’s the man I am?”
“I did when first we met,” she admitted.
Constantine’s face was stricken. “Because I left Patrice and Christian.”
Dori shook her head. “No! Because I know avenging their deaths meant more to you than saving the life of spoiled, foolish Theodora Rosemont.” She looked down at the child now somehow asleep in her arms. “It meant more to you than the possibility of someone loving you in the future.” She looked up. “The possibility of us loving you.”
Constantine walked across the floor to stand before her. “Might you love me in the future?”
She shook her head. “No. Constantine, I love you now.”
He reached one hand toward her but was interrupted by a rap at the door. He turned away.
“Come.”
A servant entered and gave a stiff bow. “How might I serve you, my lord?”
“I have a message for the king and, with his permission, several items my lady and I are in need of.”
“His Majesty has already given his permission for whatever it is you ask, my lord.”
Constantine looked over his shoulder at Dori, and for the first time since they’d arrived in London, she saw his mouth curve in a smile.
* * *
The joy Glayer Felsteppe had experienced upon his departure from the king’s court and after easing himself with a particularly interesting couple found in one of the darker houses near the palace had gradually worn away, until he was fussy and impatient when Thurston Hold came into view. He wanted to go inside the luxurious house, crawl into bed, and sleep for a pair of days. The idea of watching the last few houses still standing in Benningsgate village burn in the night was appealing, but he had underestimated his fatigue after such athletic pursuits. And, any matter, the sun would rise in a few hours. By the time they fueled the huts, killed any resisters, and got everything going properly, it would be daylight, and not nearly as dramatic.
Hot, too.
But then the shadow came lurching from the wood toward his mounted party on the road, causing his heart to leap into a gallop even as the armed guards to either side of Glayer drew their swords, ready to protect the new earl of Chase.
“Lord Felsteppe! Lord Felsteppe! Aaaghh! Don’t strike me!”
The man cowered on the road, his right arm raised up over his head, the dark splotches on his filthy tunic and mottling his light hair appeared to be blood. His leathery twig of a left arm, normally hooked inside his thin belt, swung freely, causing Glayer to wrinkle his nose.
“It’s all right,” Glayer said to the guards at his side. “He poses no danger to me.” He looked down at the man, who seemed to have either fallen down two successive cliffs or been beaten to within an inch of his grubby little life. “Good God, you mean to tell me the villagers haven’t killed you by now? Flealess, isn’t it?”
“Leland, milord,” the peasant corrected.
“Leland, yes,” Glayer said with a wave of his hand. “What are you doing
so close to Thurston Hold? You think because you did me one infinitesimally small favor years ago by admitting me to Benningsgate Castle, you now have leave to beleaguer me when I’m in the vicinity? I paid you that night, didn’t I?”
“Nay, milord. And aye, milord. I’ve only come to warn you, as I promised.” The man stepped closer, and although the soldier to Glayer’s right said nothing, he held his sword before the man’s chest, preventing his advance. Leland glanced down at it before looking back up at Glayer. “He’s back.”
Glayer sighed. His back actually was aching, now that the cripple had mentioned it. “What are you talking about?”
“Lord Gerard,” the peasant insisted. “You told me to warn you if anyone came ’round asking after the earl. No one’s done that, but the lord hisself has come.”
Glayer went very still atop his horse as his mind suddenly shook off its fatigue. “Did you see him? Perhaps from afar and you merely thought it was Lord Gerard? You are at a physical disadvantage.”
“It’s me arm that’s crippled, not me eyes!” the man shouted. “I not only seen him, I spoke to him. I watched him bury the bones of Lady Patrice what he dug out of the keep with his own hands.” Leland paused. “And with the help of one Lady Theodora Rosemont. The bastard wanted to beat me to death for the sake of that mouthy bitch.”
Glayer’s eyes narrowed. “Now I know you’re mad. My beloved bride”—he looked dramatically heavenward—“God receive her soul, has been dead these three months. Unless she is a reawakened corpse, you have clearly been imbibing of tainted drink. Even if she were otherwise—which she isn’t—Lord Gerard would certainly have nothing to do with her.”
The man shook his head until his hair arced out around him. “No. She’s been hiding in the ruin at Benningsgate all this time. ’Twas Lord Gerard discovered her.” He stepped forward again, pushing against the flat of the sword still held to his chest. “They’ve gone to London. Together. To find you.”
Glayer didn’t believe him. “Well, obviously I’m not in London. I think perhaps it would be better if you forget this little fantasy before I lose my temper. Good night, Flealess.” He was about to move on when the man reached inside his tunic, prompting two more guards to draw on the peasant.
But Leland only produced what appeared to be a piece of cloth and held it up. “Leland, milord.”
Glayer wrinkled his nose and withdrew his own sword, hooking the peasant’s offering with its tip and then flipping the object up in the air to catch it with his other hand.
It was a thin embroidered piece of footwear, perhaps once quite fine, but now worn thin and stained with great black splotches that appeared to be blood.
Theodora’s slipper.
“I stole it from the pile of ruined clothing she discarded before she left the village,” Leland said. “The earl said he’s coming for you, milord. And that naught will stop him. Not even the king.”
That did rather sound like something Gerard would boast of.
“I am the earl,” Glayer muttered, ignoring the sudden galloping of his heart in his chest. “Fine.” He turned to one of his soldiers. “Ride on to Thurston Hold and rouse the rest of the men so that they might prepare. I want Constantine Gerard—if he actually still lives—cut into teeny, tiny pieces and sprinkled over what’s left of that pathetic town. And then I will choke the breath out of Theodora Rosemont myself. That bitch. She’ll ruin my status as an eligible widower.”
He wheeled his horse around. “What are you waiting for? Go!”
“Milord?” Leland pressed.
Glayer gave a groan and looked down. “What now?”
“What shall I do?” Leland looked up at him expectedly.
“Hmm.” Glayer, sidling his horse away from the man, looked at him as if considering. “Probably not return to Benningsgate. Perhaps drop yourself down a hole?” Glayer kicked at his horse, and it leaped toward the black outline of Thurston Hold.
“Lord Felsteppe!” the cripple cried after him. “Wait! I’ve nowhere else to go! My lord! Please!”
Glayer looked over his shoulder to see the man trotting down the road, holding his useless arm against his side, likely to keep it from flopping about.
“My God, is he following me?” Glayer muttered. He sighed and turned ’round. “Go back and take care of that,” he said to the hired sword on his right. “Once I get out of this saddle, I simply must sit down properly, and yet I can’t have him alerting the entire countryside.”
The mercenary wheeled his horse from the party, drawing his sword as he turned.
“What are you doing?” the man called from the road, his voice growing fainter beneath the sound of the pounding hooves and the distance Glayer was putting between them.
“What are you doing? No! No! Plea—”
Glayer didn’t bother looking back.
Chapter 24
Constantine watched Theodora place the now sleeping baby in the low cradle as the maid left the chamber, closing the door quietly after herself. The baby had been fed and changed, Dori insisting upon wiping the whole of the child down with warm, sweet water, as if she would cleanse little William of the memory of those who had held him before his mother. She had done her awkward best with the infant, and to her credit, William had not once cried out in fear.
Now that they were alone in the smaller, less-ornate chamber the servant had shown them to and the baby had been tended, Dori moved to the small table where Constantine sat with his cup resting on his knee. She reached out to pick up the other cup, then plucked a piece of cheese from the small repast provided them.
“Shall I leave while you attend your toilette?” he asked, his eyes flicking to the plum-colored velvet Eirene of Glencovent had provided, which was presently laid across the end of the bed.
Dori held his gaze while she chewed, even over the rim of her cup. She lowered it and licked her lips. “Do you want to leave?”
He shook his head. “No.” He held his cup forth as she picked up the decanter and she filled it without comment. “But if I am to stay, we must discuss the future.”
She set the vessel back on the table. “All right.”
“I’ve nothing to offer you,” he said. “No home save the pile of rocks that is now Benningsgate. No wealth. Perhaps not even the dignity of my name, as badly battered as it has become.”
She watched him, her gamine face cocked, as if considering what he’d said. “I don’t suppose you can claim any of those things yet,” she admitted. “But I believe you will have all of them restored to you in time.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “It is certainly my desire now to rebuild Benningsgate. I’ll find a way.”
“Then we might talk about what I will bring to you,” Dori suggested, and the fact that she had not moved close enough for Constantine to be within his reach irritated him, like an itch he was prevented from scratching. “Rather than the lack you perceive on your part, I bring a surplus of things you may have no interest in. A home of my own. Another man’s child. The taint of my—quite deservedly earned—reputation.”
Constantine grinned. “I happen to admire your reputation very much.”
“Do you want me, Constantine?” she asked boldly, and set down her cup before stepping into the space between his knees. “Not just my body—I’m not so naïve as to be oblivious to our attraction to each other. But I come with my past, mistakes and ugliness. Obligations and burdens. Uncertainty.”
Constantine stood, causing Dori to turn her face up to his in order to look at him.
“I could argue that the mistakes of my own past are uglier than yours. And they, too, might rear their heads in our future, providing even more obstacles for us to overcome.”
“I suppose we’ve already proved that we can overcome anything the world throws at us,” she reasoned, bringing her palms to his chest. “Even death.”
Constantine wrapped his arms around her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I love you, Theodora.”
She raised up on
her toes as he lowered his head, and their joined mouths were warm and wet, gentle and welcoming. The sounds of their long kiss were loud in the room, accompanied by the crackle of the fire in the hearth.
Dori touched his face as they parted. “I love you, too.”
Constantine looked into her eyes. “I will do my best to raise William as a father. To love him as he deserves to be loved. As I know his own father would have loved him.”
Her big eyes reflected the candlelight behind him. “And I will always respect the place in your heart where Patrice and Christian still live. I don’t expect my son to take his place, Constantine. But I know William will be a better man because you first had Christian.”
Constantine’s breath caught in his chest and he forced himself to swallow. “The man I have been since Chastellet, before Chastellet, is also dead. And I need to bury him.”
Dori nodded. “I’ll help you.”
He took one of her hands and brought the backs of her fingers to his lips. Then he released her and pulled the rough brown tunic over his head. Dori slipped out of her peasant’s shoes and untied the coarse apron and tossed it aside, and then Constantine turned her away from him, dropping his mouth to the curve of her neck as he pushed the kirtle from her shoulders. Dori loosened the ties of her underskirt and it fell in a puddle around her feet.
He led her to the stand where the wash bowl sat and dunked, then lathered a soft linen cloth. He ran a trail of suds over her chest, the thin bubbles racing down over her small breasts while she untied the laces of his chausses. Then around her neck so that he could pull her naked torso to his and kiss her once more. Then he spun her in his arms, supporting her with his forearm while he washed the narrow length of her back, over the rounded cheeks of her buttocks. Constantine brought the cloth over her hip and slid it between her legs while Theodora reached up for him, turning her face to the side and seeking his mouth.
Constantine dunked the rag again and then squeezed it atop her head while she turned in his arms, closing her eyes and raking her fingers back through her cropped hair. Then he tossed the rag back into the bowl and pulled a length of linen toweling from its folded stack, wrapping it around her shoulders and then kissing her as he backed her to the bed.
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